Chupacabras 100km

10 Hours in Juarez

Can Mexico's most popular bike race survive in the murder capital of the world? Hammering battle-scarred desert singletrack, our man learns one simple truth: for people living in the crossfire of a vicious war between drug traffickers, the Chupacabras 100km might be their best escape.

lou mazzante

Distinctly egalitarian, the Chupacabras doesn't award prize money or finish with an elaborate podium ceremony. Instead, the top 500 finishers get custom Chupacabras jerseys. These are prized possessions among riders on both sides of the border. Men in Juarez have been known to don them before heading to a nightclub; women wear them into bike shops expecting discounts.

My legs still feel good three hours in, and for the first time I think I have a chance to win a jersey. As the miles drag on, the idea swirls in my mind and grows larger, like a spinning cloud of cotton candy.

In a valley, on swerving singletrack, I slow behind another rider. "Permiso," I say, hoping it means excuse me. The rider slides right, and I slip to the trail's fringes. We exchange quick greetings--thanks, wishes of good luck and a sigh acknowledging what's still ahead.

Puerto Dragones, 12:18 p.m.

One of the oddities of mountain biking is that inhospitable terrain often makes for great riding: desolate deserts, airless mountain peaks, craggy coastal cliffs. The sun-baked scrubland of Juarez is no different. Though sandy, the soil contains heavy amounts of clay, which packs into perfectly concave, roller-coaster singletrack. With few trees, trail builders here are free to follow the contours of the wrinkled mountain flanks. Even after 65 kilometers, I speed down carpets of velvet dirt between rocky outcroppings.

Between peaks I come upon Willy Morales. He is one of the original 20 Chupacabras riders and has yet to miss a race. I met him in El Paso for dinner, and his dedication to this event was obvious. Morales had insisted on riding this year even though his wife had asked him not to. "This is one of the only things left that is good and wholesome in a city where there is so much violence," he told me.

Now as I ride past, he calls out: "What's up, brother?"

"Feeling okay?" I ask.

"Oh, yeah. I just had to stop to help one of the guys," Morales says. "He's cramping

up so I gave him some Enduralytes."

All along the course, I've witnessed this: riders passing along a pump, or tubes--even dismounting to help another competitor change his tire. At one point, I saw a rider stop to help stretch the cramping legs of another.

Morales tucks in behind me, and we pass several riders on the course's first technical climb. Running into Morales boosts my spirits. He finished 192nd last year; I might be in better position than I thought.

The chance encounter also reminds me of Domingo Brito. He is out here somewhere, suffering with us all. I imagine his bar-ends shaking loose, those giant pegs snagging cactus after cactus, the bike creaking and complaining. I wonder if his legs, unaccustomed to the hills and the sand, are doing the same.

My own muscles are numb with lactic-acid overload, which brings the blissful release of endorphins. For a while, I'm oblivious to my surroundings. Then the trail dips into a sandy wash and I nearly run into a trailside cross. It is small and yellow and tilted toward the sun. I can't make out the name of the deceased, but I immediately flash back to what I've heard about the daily horrors of life in Juarez.

In one instance last year, an assassin walked into a birthday party and mowed down 15 teenagers. It turned out the killer had mistakenly thought the kids belonged to a rival gang. Not long after, several gunmen entered a drug rehab center and killed 10 recovering addicts and employees. Even Chamizal Park, home to the stadium where the race began, moonlights as a dumping ground for decapitated and limbless victims of the drug war. Almost 10 people are murdered every day, and no one is ever convicted of these crimes, and now there is literally an asylum in these hills for those who can no longer cope.